


Winter in the Little Palace

by redsixwing



Category: The Grisha Trilogy - Leigh Bardugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Feels, BAMF Alina Starkov, Baghra's A+ Parenting, Baghra's Head is a Bad Place, F/M, Not King of Scars Compatible, Past Mal Oretzev / Alina Starkov
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-13
Updated: 2020-12-25
Packaged: 2021-03-10 22:54:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,298
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28054968
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redsixwing/pseuds/redsixwing
Summary: Written for Yuletide 2020.Baghra and Alina's wildly different perspectives on the Darkling, and how things could have gone if nobody listened to Baghra.Warning: Baghra is written as a harsh and arguably abusive parent, and this is darkfic about that relationship, with a side of shipping. Everything is terrible (except the parts that are pretty much okay).Canon divergence pretty much as soon as Alina gets lessons in summoning.This fic is likely not compatible with King of Scars (or any subsequent work).
Relationships: The Darkling | Aleksander Morozova/Alina Starkov
Comments: 9
Kudos: 38
Collections: Yuletide 2020





	1. A Lesson in Pain

**Author's Note:**

  * For [gryfeathr](https://archiveofourown.org/users/gryfeathr/gifts).



Separated by hundreds of miles and hundreds of years from the forest she'd once known, Baghra felt sometimes that she had never left. Had she thought she and her son could simply live? Had she thought, once, that he might save the Grisha from their tormentors?

It was not to be. No, never, never to be. Clinging branches still dragged her back to a place and time where the torches were coming for them both. He couldn’t save them at all.

He lived in a palace; she lived in a rough hut, to proclaim her greater virtue and remind him whence he had come. He wore fine black kefta; she wore a much-mended one that had lost whatever color it had long ago, then been over-dyed in black that itself had faded to charcoal. The only thing the boy did right was to breakfast on rough bread and herring, and even then, she knew what puffed-up sweets the kitchens of the Grand Palace produced. Doubtless the commander of the Second Army could procure them. If someone wanted to curry favor, he wouldn’t so much as need to lower himself by entering the kitchens. He'd loved sweets since he was a boy; no doubt he snuck them now, when Baghra wasn't looking.

It wasn't right to think of him as a boy, any more. He had not been a child since he mastered the Cut. Naughty boy became sinning man. Now he knew what he was doing, and chose, again and again, to flout her teachings and the ways of the Saints.

It was selfishness, she mused. Pure selfishness. Had he a moral bone in his body, were he not so extremely resistant to sacrifice, to the outward signs of inward purity! He could have been a mystic of the highest quality, his hands full of shadows and his shriven heart full of joy. He could have given his power as a servant to those who deserved it most. He could have joined Sankt Ilya on the hallowed pages of the Istorii Sankt’ya. Why had he not?

To present the world a false death, again and again. To rise as a new Darkling, a grandson or a nephew or a foundling of the old. To grasp again at temporal power, when it was spiritual power he – they both – needed. And she? She was bound to him, her own son. She could no more depart the Little Palace than he would. She would not leave him behind.

Baghra had wanted to give him ambition and power. To grant him strength to protect himself. To bestow on him all the gifts of her wisdom! He had taken those gifts and twisted them, in the pursuit of power after power.

Aleksander had wanted to spare all the Grisha, as if that were not a goal too lofty for any mortal, from prejudice and pain. And so he'd used the Small Science, and he'd used forbidden merʐost, and he'd damned them all forever when he ripped the Shadow Fold into existence. And now, now -

Sin on sin. Cruelty on suffering. He had reached out his grasping hand and seized a little nothing of a girl, filling her head with nonsense and lies, telling her she was a Sun Summoner. Telling her she could help him! If she had real power, it would be used to control the Unsea, and to turn merʐost against his enemies. This time, he might turn all of Ravka into lifeless silver sand.

No; Baghra knew better than that. She would let him run until he fell down. She would show her son failure, again, and remind him who was wisest. She had done it before.

* * *

  


The girl was resisting. Baghra had seen so little of the power she should have. Her son was right: the girl could summon sunlight, would she only behave herself and focus. Focus through pain. Focus through fear. Focus and draw forth the light!

Alina, like her son, did not want to behave.

Baghra was free with her cane. Alina learned to fear its reach, as she should. When the fledgling Sun Summoner began to focus, the old wooden cane with the dull steel cap licked out and taught her pain, and the girl dropped her power on the floor, again and again. She dropped her power whether or not Baghra helped her to hold it.

She was nothing, and she'd remain nothing. Baghra would see to it, and her son would see it, and that would be the end of his latest foolish plan.

The girl was a problem. Too innocent in some ways, she was all too knowing in others. Baghra saw how she pined after Aleksander, with the same calf eyes as twenty girls over as many years. If they weren't all careful, she would be a distraction when he needed it least. Baghra didn't want that, so she sneered and snipped at the girl in his presence. Her words would let him see how foolish Alina truly was. He needed his focus, if he was going to repair the errors of his ways, and Baghra still held hope that the good, obedient boy she loved could return to her.

After all, she was all he'd ever really have.

* * *

  


It wasn't working.

Alina couldn't do this, not with that vicious old witch bruising her shins with a cane. Not with the horrid hard hands squeezing hers so that her fingertips would tingle by the time she'd taken five breaths. It had to have been a fluke, a mistake, that set her here. Baghra would draw the light out of her, and then demand she do it herself — and the moment she got close, she'd hear the whoosh of cane through air, and the power at the edge of her mind's grasp would retreat, untouchable, and then she'd have a new mark to decorate her skinny knees.

Alina had been alone before, the odd girl at the orphanage. At least she'd had Mal to lean on, there. She wrote him letters, but it wasn't the same. And then -

The Fold. The volcra. She shied away from the memory. The only good thing about it was that it had landed her in the Little Palace, and most days she wasn't so sure about that.

The sneers of the beautiful Grisha who had earned their places, she'd seen those before too. Genya was the only person she could converse with, in truth. And so she sought Genya, one day after breakfast, when anger and shame felt like burning weights under her breastbone, and sat with her on a bench amidst a scattering of apple trees. In the distance, laughter sounded as a Squaller made a rainbow. Alina looked away.

"You know I'm from Keramzin?" Even that was hard to say, but Genya didn't toss her beautiful head and sniff. She fixed Alina with bright eyes and nodded, slowly.

"Do you know how it is to live in a place like that?" Alina's voice sounded dull in her own ears. She studied her hands, pale and spidery. A purpling mark and a scabbed split on one knuckle where she'd been too slow to avoid Baghra's cane, again. "There was this woman named Ana Kuya. The Duke's housekeeper. She was... well, she made us pray for his health, every day. She recited the lessons, too. If you spoke too loudly, or answered back, she had this wooden ruler." One of her hands knotted, and gestured as if slashing downward. It lacked the visceral swish-crack! she remembered, but Genya flinched as if she'd heard it. "She didn't like disobedient children."

"Your poor hands," the Tailor said. She took the raised hand between her own. "This didn't come from any ruler." She focused, and Alina felt a prickling as the mark began to fade.

"She's just like Ana Kuya," Alina burst out, despite her determination to keep quiet. "Always snipping at me and calling names when I can't answer how she likes!" She regretted the words as soon as they were spoken, but the flood would not be stopped. "My f...friend Mal, he got hit even more than me. The Duke said she should care for us and teach us. That she'd be like a mother, but she didn't teach us anything. She's nothing like a mother at all! And she hit-"

Her voice was not loud enough to entirely cover the sound of soft footsteps. Alina blushed, two vivid spots of pink; Genya put her hand over the mark she was healing. The Darkling swept into the apple grove, his expression a cipher.

Without speaking, he lifted Genya's hand and saw the healing bruise beneath, the silvery line of freshly knit skin. His brows lowered.

"Baghra," he said, and turned, and strode away.

Alina traded a long, frightened stare with Genya. Then the Tailor was tugging her hand and hissing, "sit down, Alina," and then she was in pursuit. Alina hardly knew whether she intended to protect Baghra from his anger, or to defend the Darkling from her cane, or only to know what her careless outburst had done.

By the time she arrived at the little hut by the lake, the door was swinging ajar, and two voices were raised inside.

"Your methods are cruel-"

"It worked for you, boy!"

"You will teach without hurting them." It was a command, cold and angry. "Or lose your school forever-"

"You think you can do it without me." The contempt in Baghra's voice chilled Alina to the bone, and she winced, just waiting for the thud of the cane. Would she dare strike the Darkling? Would he, who commanded the Second Army, allow an old woman to even try?

"I can." The door banged open, and the Darkling pulled up short, nearly striding straight into Alina in his rapid exit from the hut. She saw his face change, from anger kept on a short, tight leash to surprise to careful blankness, all in the time it took him to avoid running into her.

"Your lesson is with me, today," he ordered. And before Alina could so much as protest that she'd had one lesson already, he yanked his right glove free and wadded it into a pocket. "Raise your hand," he instructed. "Baghra's lamp has gone out."

"I-"

"Raise it."

Alina raised her hand, and summoned the dregs of her focus. Nothing happened.

The Darkling whirled, standing side by side with her, as if the little door askew on its hinges were the depths of the Shadow Fold itself. He grabbed her left hand, palm to palm. Power slammed through the contact. Light blazed into the little hut. Baghra recoiled against the sudden glare, one hand reaching for her cane as the other shielded her narrowed eyes.

"Use that light to study instruction," the Darkling commanded. "You will not repeat your mistakes. From today, every mark you make on a student will be repeated on your own flesh."

The light stuttered out when he dropped Alina's hand. He shut the door with more force than necessary. Alina stepped back, trying to calm her racing heart.

"Raise your hand," the Darkling said, more gently. Alina raised it again, scrabbling with a spinning mind after the feeling of the sun bursting forth from her fingertips.

Nothing happened.

He extended his bare hand. Alina stared at it, and at the impassive wall of his face. When he'd been angry, something in the set of his jaw had reminded her of Mal, defiant. Now, the resemblance was gone, but she saw in his grey eyes the guarded shadow of a boy who was acquainted with the cane.

She took his hand, and the glow broke free.

"Good," the Darkling said. "Now, stop it."

He kept her hand, and Alina remembered her reading, her studies of theory. She grasped after the power, fumbling with one concept, then another, trying in vain to follow a map more confusing than any she'd seen. It was minutes before the glow diminished, but he did not shout, and did not drop her hand. Her shins ached in the cold.

When at last she succeeded, he nodded, short and sharp. "Again."

She closed her eyes and focused. Surety came from the left hand, and power from the pit of the belly. Light came from the raised fingertips-

Until the door creaked open, and Alina flinched back. Baghra peered out, her mouth an angry slash and her eyes hard as flints.

"Come with me," the Darkling said, before she could speak. Alina let him lead her away, back toward Genya at the top of the hill.

* * *

  


His legs were longer than hers, but Alina had experience keeping up at a fast march. Still, she was glad of it when he slowed his pace, just past the first trees. Some of the frightening impassivity had fallen from his face, to be replaced with an air of thoughtfulness.

“From now on,” he said without preamble, “you should take your lessons with me, so long as I have time. If I do not, Genya will accompany you.”

He glanced sideways, cool and assessing as if the shouting had never happened. “I would like to see more of your summoning.”

Alina’s heart was in her throat. Baghra had been bad, but this was terrifying. “Of course,” she said, and dashed off a military bow. She thought his lips crept into the faintest of smirks as he held out his hand once again.

This time, the feeling that came with skin contact was more restrained. It was certainly not to blame for the way her heart fluttered in her throat. Sternly, Alina told herself to focus. There was sun slanting down through the bare branches of the trees. She could add one more sloping line of light.

The light came after a painful interval of attempting, and when she opened her eyes again, it was to see the Darkling’s head tilted, as if deep in thought. He took his hand back, but her pulse refused to settle.

“Good,” was all he said, and he spent a long minute pulling his glove precisely into place. Alina used the time to breathe, and to try to sort through the whirl of feelings. Elation, from the light and the touch. Fear, still, and pain, the latter ebbing where Genya had healed her. Confusion, from the few snippets she had overheard.

“I can’t take up that much of your time,” she said, at last. “I’m -”

“You are the Sun Summoner,” he said, and it seemed to her that the words were freighted with more than a scholarly interest. “The key to Ravkan power. When you first summoned light, you protected three skiffs from the volcra. That was the merest beginning, Alina. I can spare the time.”

Embarrassment flared into frustration, and all at once it was too much to hold. “And I haven’t been able to do it since! Not without you, or her-” a finger stabbed back the way they’d come- “holding my hand like a child who can’t cross the road alone!”

He nodded, as if coming to a conclusion he expected. Alina caught herself expecting a retribution that did not come, for her impertinence.

“You need an amplifier,” he replied, and held up a gloved hand. “And not one who may be called away at any moment.” A ghost of a smile crossed his lips. “I know where we may find such a thing. And then – imagine it, Alina. Darkling and Sun Summoner, working in concert. We are two like the world has never seen. We will be second to none. Ravka will bow to no one.”

It was definitely not the touch of his hand that made it hard to breathe. Hard to think.

“I thought amplifiers were rare-”

“They are.” His eyebrows rose, and the Darkling began to walk again. Alina fell in beside him. “But a power such as yours deserves it. Demands it.” His grey eyes cut sideways, and she saw that the anger had been replaced by, or perhaps subsumed into, ambition. “There is a stag with a snow-white pelt...”

* * *

  


Genya had a moment of pure panic when Alina ran after the Darkling. Could she not see his mood, written in the blankness of his face? Was she trying to defend the old woman who’d struck her?

Even her ears were not keen enough to pick words out from the orchard to the lake, but she would have heard the Cut if he’d used it. The crack of thunder didn’t come, and so Genya did not go running after. She would be expected in a known location – if not by Alina, then by him. She gathered a few things: a leaf still touched with autumnal orange, a pebble with the perfect hue to put a shine on Alina’s hair. A feather, luckily found intact, of pure and vivid blue.

It was neither the Darkling, nor Alina, who came up the hill to seek her. It was the Darkling and Alina, speaking as they walked.

He looked at her with the sort of attention that he usually reserved for battle plans and particularly rare tomes. And Alina? She had lost her fear and her sorrow both, and her bruised hand gestured excitedly as she tried to explain something. There was a healthy color in her cheeks, and for the first time in weeks, Genya was certain her arts had not placed it there.

Alina raised a hand to greet her. Genya waved back, feeling the tight pull of anxiety ease. Certainly she had not stopped him from doing whatever he desired? The situation seemed less fraught, no matter what had happened at the foot of the hill.

The Darkling bowed and excused himself, not letting Genya in on the conversation. She let Alina stare after him for a moment, then patted her arm. “So – tell me all about it.”

* * *

  


When Alina awoke to find a black kefta placed in her rooms, she put it on. Genya showed her how to darken her lashes, so that her eyes were as bright as the white embroidery on her collar, and Alina began to take her lessons with the Darkling himself.


	2. A Lesson in Conflict

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Baghra begins to work against the Darkling, and Alina chooses a side.

It was good that Baghra was not actually confined to her hut. Doubtless the empty-headed students saw that remained in all day and thought her unable to leave, but Baghra had allies. Allies, and a back door, against the day she could convince her son to take her hand and follow her back into the forest. 

That day looked further and further away. It was the girl's fault - the Sun Summoner who so rarely came to Baghra for discipline and wisdom. No, she and the boy thought there was enough wisdom between them, and scorned old Baghra only because they disliked the taste of the rod. 

How lucky that she did not deal them the same hand in turn! Aleksander had been cruel to her, and more than once, but Baghra did not turn her back on him. So steadfast was a mother's love that it pushed back all fear. Even the fear of the Cut, did her loving son feel he must use it against her.

Surely, he would not, and she had no need to imagine such despicable things. Baghra was no mere grandmother, to sit by the fire at the pleasure of the young.

They would realize, one day, exactly what it was she offered them. Exactly what they - especially the girl - lacked. If she was lucky, Baghra would be there to pick her son up again, and teach him how to avoid such a reckoning in the future. 

First, she would have to endure the present. Though not confined, Baghra shunned the company of most of the residents of the Little Palace. She went out in the evenings; she attended the services the Apparat gave in the little chapel, to an audience of servants and a meager collection of coins. Of course, she studied, and she taught. 

Her son's lecture and threats did not mean Baghra was free of instructing the Sun Summoner. It only meant she was no longer permitted the use of the cane. 

It would have been tolerable if the sulking girl had arrived alone, even if she was determined to make Baghra her own personal villain. Of course, she did not - if Aleksander did not come to threaten or stare with his cold eyes, that too-pretty Tailor came in his stead, and told him everything she saw.

Another of her son's failures, that one. Baghra would have made a Healer of her, a proper expression of Grisha power, and no matter that she would've had to work harder for it. Instead, he had encouraged her to waste her power on fripperies, and now the pattern was set; Genya knew too much of cosmetics and not enough of the inner mysteries of the body. 

Baghra blamed her son for the misteaching. Would he never cease in his shallow efforts to defy the Saints?

In truth, Baghra herself deserved half the blame. She had taught the boy too much of vanity, and not enough humility. Now if he strove after beauty and influence, it was only the natural expression of his pride. She had served years of penance under his sharp tongue for it. Yet seeing his own mother cast low had not stopped him. A thousand canes could not break him of his ambitions now. No, he'd have to do it himself. 

He needed to be shown the error of his ways. Aleksander had never been fond of failure - then, she would engineer a failure so complete that he would have no choice but to come back to her. 

A back door planned to give the two of them a safe path to freedom could whisk another away. She would take the Sun Summoner from him. That would put a stop to all his fantasies. 

Aleksander would come back to her, and there would be forgiveness between them at last.

* * *

It was after sunset when Baghra slipped out. Her old joints did not like the cold, but beneath her _kefta_ were layers of wool, saved from many a winter past. Let Aleksander travel by troika and horse; Baghra stomped her sturdy boots and barred the door. The moon stood high, casting its light over the frozen lake.

The night contrived to be a shade darker around Baghra. Away she crept, past the empty shapes of the Etherealki pavilions and the lit windows of the Little Palace. The path took her to a coachman's shed by the gate. Sounds issued out: horses and voices, the creak of harness. Someone wanting a bowl of broth and an end of bread to go with it. Baghra huffed out fog and waited. 

It was not long before the pale man came out. He slouched against the bole of a tree and smoked, dark eyes glittering as he glanced around. He was undistinguished, but she knew his face. Crucially, he did not know hers.

"Pyotr." Coach or footman, soldier or traveler, when they spoke to her, they were all Pyotr. 

Pyotr turned. "Madam," he said, to the darkest patch of night. 

"I shall require a fast relay of horses and a ship," Baghra said. "Safe passage for one, to cross the Fold by sandskiff. Arrange travel out of Ravka from Os Kervo. You will know the traveler by my letter and my seal." 

The coachman lowered his cupped hands, the glow of the cigarette still caged inside. He came away from the coachhouse and its lit windows, boots crunching on crusted snow, until the darker part of the night covered him, too. "Where's the money?" he asked, in a low, querulous voice. "Not coming out of my pockets." 

"The money is where you left it," Baghra informed him, a disgusted sneer audible in her voice. "If you haven't spent it all on vice. What would the Apparat think of your making free with that much church coin?" The dark grew colder, piercing, and a sound could be heard in it that was not the rustling of leaves. 

"Don't tell him. I'll see it done!" Pyotr's voice broke in fear. He cursed and stumbled backward until the moonlight fell on his face again. He lifted his cigarette and pulled a long face - the stub had gone out. 

By the time he looked back up, Baghra had vanished into the night. 

It was a handful of days later that a book was brought to the little hut by the lake. On one leaf, a careless baggage handler had stamped the name of a ship: _Verloren,_ out of Kerch.

Baghra wrote a letter and put it where her prying son would not find it.

* * *

Alina breathed deep of air scented with perfume and rich foods, champagne and laughter. Across the room, Genya tossed her a grin, and patted the hand of an old man in a splendid jacket. Grisha studded the room like bright butterflies, immediately recognizable in their vivid colors. The courtiers wore less striking shades - it seemed there had been a fashion for pastels, and so pale greens and blues, soft pinks and yellows, mingled everywhere she looked.

Alina alone wore black, with an eclipse in gold at her throat. Black, silken as the touch of an interested hand. There should have been one more black robe, and yet she did not see even the tip of a sleeve. 

When the Grisha began to ring the room, rather than mingling in its middle, the mood shifted. Appreciation became anticipation, and they did not disappoint: when the Tidecallers raised a dome of water that obscured the beautiful ceiling, the Squallers made a cloud of it. Alina, in a moment of mischief, called just enough of a glow to send rainbows shimmering everywhere. The crowd gasped and cheered, and in that moment, the silence beside her told her that the Darkling was there. 

He did not speak, not even the curt "good" her most recent lesson had elicited. When Alina looked up at him, there was a half smile on his lips, and some veiled emotion about his eyes. She could not help but smile back at him. 

Two thunderclaps: one to bring the darkness, held just long enough for a slow murmur to begin. For the first footsteps to sidle carefully toward a door. The second brought light, warm at first, a halo, then a web, as the mirrors carefully placed through the hall captured and spread the beam coming from her upraised hand. 

Then, as they'd practiced: ribbons of shadow twisting through a sphere of light. Breathing harder with the effort, Alina let the light dawn further - and then she felt the brush of a hand against hers. 

She did not clasp it, but neither did she pull away. Instead, she flung open the gates of her power. The Darkling let his shadows flee to the edges of the room and vanish. Alina felt the soaring ecstasy of the light, and knew that he did too, every time their knuckles brushed. The light went on and on, dawning like the sun! As hands raised to cover eyes, she felt a long, slim finger wrap around one of hers.

When he bowed out, she followed. It was no surprise that the connection opened when he kissed her - no surprise that heat followed light. No surprise that the cool touch of the shadows could wake a different glow in her. 

It was only a surprise that, after the door rattled, neither of them leaned back in. Perhaps it was that reveling voices were drawing closer, and when one party had adjourned to the queen's sitting room, another may have the same idea. 

"Alina," he said, stormcloud eyes on her face. "May I come to you tonight? There's-" 

"Yes," she breathed, and put a swift kiss on his lips before fleeing the oncoming voices.

* * *

Alina made it back to her room with a minimum of unwanted conversation. Genya was nowhere to be found, likely still enjoying her champagne and the closeness of the court. The _oprichniki_ were doubtless nearby, but not visible. 

She took a moment to enjoy the quiet, leaning her head back against the wall, and then glanced into her mirror. 

Genya had made a masterpiece on the canvas of her face. Dark eyelashes, bright eyes, lips still flushed. A fetching pinkness in her cheeks. Alina gave the mirror a startled look. 

What would it mean, if he came to visit her tonight? For her? For him? For all his plans, about her amplifier and Ravka itself? 

What would it mean for them? 

Her hand paused over a hairpin, then decided, and pulled it out. Down came her hair, the gloss still on it. It fell in half-coherent curls past her collar, darker than gold, lighter than black. All her own. 

Would he kiss her throat, if her hair veiled it?

A rough, urgent knock on the door! Alina spun, heart in her throat. What if- 

"Girl, get out here," snarled a familiar voice.

It was Baghra. 

Alina made a frustrated sound deep in her throat. There was no putting her hair back up in time to go and find out what the problem was. Her only hope was to find out what was the matter, handle it, and be alone again when - if - the Darkling arrived. 

No sooner did she open the door than a hand snaked in, grabbing for her wrist. Alina pulled back, but Baghra was strong. Before a moment had passed, Alina was in the hallway, in the wedge of light that spilled out from her chamber, and her tutor and tormentor was yanking at her hand.

* * *

Baghra could hardly believe the girl. Wearing a black robe as if she could compare to Aleksander! Hair down, like a maiden at a maypole! And Baghra could guess who that net was set to catch. Oh, the wicked little thing would get herself in more trouble than she knew. 

"Come with me," Baghra snarled, and grabbed for one of the Sun Summoner's wrists. She did not expect meaningful resistance. After all, she'd not laid a hand to Alina for weeks, but only commanded and jibed in turns. 

Alina came two halting steps, out into the hallway, and stopped. "Baghra, what are you doing?" 

"Saving your life," Baghra snapped. "Can't you see? The Darkling is coming for you at any moment." 

She wasn't imagining it. The girl blushed, and Baghra felt the corners of her mouth drag down in distaste. How dare she think herself his match, when she could barely command her own power. When she knew nothing of deprivation or pain!

"Baghra," the girl said, soothing. She refused to be yanked along. Saints keep her, but Baghra needed just a little cooperation. "Baghra, nothing is wrong. We're going to talk-" 

"I'm sure you are," Baghra snapped, in a withering tone. "There's no time for talk or anything else. I have news - Morozova's herd has been seen. He'll take that amplifier and use it to collar you to him. You'll spend your life a slave to him." 

The silly girl shook her head again, still digging in her heels. Baghra gave her hand a sharp yank. If she fell on her face, it was only what she deserved for her stubbornness. 

To her surprise, Alina yanked back, and it was Baghra who had to take a grudging step. 

"You let go of me right now," Alina demanded, in a brittle, shrill voice. Too loud! Baghra heard, or imagined, footsteps. When she snapped a look over her shoulder, nobody was there. 

"Come with me, Alina," she said again. This time, she put pleading into her voice. Syrupy, pitying. "You don't know what he'll do to you. You'll never have a free thought again." 

Alina had the nerve to snarl at her, painted lips a mockery of the Grisha who had, in turn, mocked her. "I don't think you know what he's planning," she said, shaking her head, still talking to Baghra like she'd lost her senses. "We're going to turn back the Shadow Fold-" 

Baghra interrupted. "You don't know anything," she snapped. "He created the Shadow Fold. It was his power that wounded the world! You think you can stand against that?" 

"That's impossible," Alina claimed, her brows creasing together. "That was four hundred years ago-" 

"He was there, and so was I. Look at me -" Baghra raised her free hand. Felt the hush of the night wind, the safe places out in the chill dark. In turn, the dark pooled in her hand, and she had the satisfaction of seeing Alina's eyes fly wide. 

Baghra had to grant that Alina caught on more quickly than some. "You're his mother," she whispered. 

"I am," Baghra said. "And I know him better than anyone. I know him to be cruel and full of secrets. When I say he means you harm, you best believe me." She narrowed her eyes to black slits and pulled again. "Now, come with me. There's a ship to carry you to safety-"

"I am not going anywhere." Alina twisted her wrist and yanked, and Baghra had to let go, or stumble into the lamplight. She let go. 

Alina's hands flew down to her sides, clenched tight. She advanced half a pace. "How dare you come in here telling lies," she cried. "You think I'm going to go with you? Just so you can spoil everything and gloat about it? You think it proves anything that you're his mother? You could be sixty years old, and spinning fairy tales. It doesn't make a difference." 

"He's lived centuries manipulating little girls like you," Baghra snarled. "Or do you think you're the only one?" 

"No," Alina retorted, blushing. "And it wouldn't matter if he'd never kissed anyone else. The part that matters is, we are going to hunt the stag." She stabbed a finger at Baghra, accusatory. "We are going to stop the Shadow Fold. And WE are going to change Ravka for the Grisha.

"YOU are going to take your lies and go back to your hut, and if you lay hands on me again, I'll- I'll light up this whole wing, and half the Little Palace will come running. Now get out of my hallway!"

Before Baghra could catch her again, the Sun Summoner fled into her room and slammed the door. 

Baghra groaned as if her bones ached and hurried down to the servants' entrance. She had cached clothing and supplies there, and if she moved fast, she still had a chance to make them disappear. 

Behind her, the Darkling stepped out of shadows. When the servant's door clicked shut, he turned, and gestured to the _oprichnik_ at the end of the hall.

When the hallway was empty of all but him, he paused. Duty called from a hundred directions; pleasure, only one. And wanting...

Oh, wanting made him weak. 

He needed to make sure the Sun Summoner had not believed his saboteur of a mother. That was all.

* * *

Alina slammed the door and crumpled against the wall, heart racing. 

Four hundred years! 

She couldn't believe it. Didn't believe it. Immortal Grisha were for children's tales, nothing more. Baghra may be another Darkling, may even have been telling the truth about being his mother, but the rest of it? Garbage, start to finish. Pap meant for a naive girl. 

Alina was done being naive, and she was finished with manipulation. 

Tears came, and she shocked herself when the handkerchief she used to catch them came away black, as if she were weeping shadows. That sparked a sudden need to wash her face. 

By the time she was finished, she looked more like herself - pale, with shadows by her eyes that had nothing to do with cosmetics. Her hair still fell in a glory of brown curls, and the splendid black and gold of her robe had changed not at all. 

There was a knock on the door. 

"I'm coming," she informed the room. 

The Darkling stood on the other side, his hand raised to knock again, a quizzical tilt to his dark eyebrows. 

"Hello," Alina said. 

"May I come in?" he asked. 

"Of course." How awkward. She should have invited him in! But he moved with a silken sound, and she followed him in to her room. The door closed again, and she hovered by it. 

How had she not planned what to say? Was it worse if he'd missed the conversation, or if he'd overheard only the last of it? She'd have to explain it allƒ: her red eyes, the cosmetics staining the cloth on the vanity, every terrible thing Baghra had said- 

The Darkling was sitting in her room, watching her. He had a faint, lopsided smile, and the expression of a rapt birdwatcher. She knew the kind. They could stare at their quarry all day. 

"I- Baghra- your _mother-_ " She was going about it all wrong. The smile vanished, and the Darkling drew a slow breath. 

"My _mother_ told you a pack of lies," he stated. "And you didn't believe them." He got up from her chair. She moved to get out of his way, but his hand was there. Bumping into it placed her in the circle of his arms. 

"Well done, Alina," he said, a strange intensity in his voice.

She didn't reply, because he pulled her closer and kissed her again. Alina wrapped one arm around his back, and sent the other hand exploring up his spine. His lean body was tense. 

His lips were the sole place she touched his skin, and the sense of connection bloomed there. Confidence, longing - she'd sensed before the way he wanted, hungry as a winter wolf. And something else, the simmering frustration from earlier today. 

She pulled back, wanting little more than for the electric touch to resume. "Are you so angry with me?" she asked. 

"Not with you." He leaned forward, lips grazing her cheek even as she pulled back. Dark brows knit as he gave her a piercing, inquisitive look. 

"With her?" 

"Don't be so quick to defend her, Alina." Spoken in a bleak tone, the words did not fit the moment. The Darkling's hands began to slide down her sides, as he grudgingly began to let go. Alina stepped close again, and that time, it was she who kissed him. 

No doubt he'd heard it all before. Baghra was never quiet about her displeasure. For Alina, it didn't matter at all. She was kissing him with all the pent-up emotion of a long, hard winter, and he was kissing her with desire barely restrained. His hand went to her hip, and began bunching fabric there. Fingers grazed skin, and she felt the electric jolt just as she felt him tense. What would it feel like if-

Someone knocked on the door. 

Alina kissed him one last time. The Darkling leveled a killing glare at the offending portal. His hair was barely out of place, and Alina suddenly, terribly, wanted to see it mussed. 

Instead, she straightened her skirt and answered the door. 

Ivan stood there, his posture flawless, hands tucked behind his back. Alina gaped. "Ivan?" 

"My apologies for the interruption." He wasn't meeting her eyes, but staring straight over her shoulder - her left shoulder. No doubt avoiding his master's gaze was the less awkward choice. 

The Darkling stepped up to her right side. "Speak, Ivan." His voice was serious. 

"Your troika will stand ready in the morning, but the trackers report the loss of Morozova's Herd. And-" a glance at Alina, full of suppressed curiosity - "we apprehended Baghra near the coachhouse." 

The Darkling nodded, and there was nothing of pleasure in his smile. "Alina? Forgive me." His hand came down and squeezed hers, possessive. "You should ready a bag. We leave in the morning.

"Bring Baghra, Ivan. There is no time, and we have a stag to hunt. If the trackers cannot catch him, I will do it myself."

He whirled in a blur of silk and velvet, but before he could vanish down the dim hallway, Alina spoke loud and clear as a challenge. "Good night." 

Ivan's footsteps stuttered. The Darkling turned and gave her the shadow of a smile. "Good night, Alina." He sketched a bow, and left Alina and her aching want to pack her things.


	3. A Lesson in Loneliness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Matters come to a head as Baghra is brought along to hunt Morozova's Stag. 
> 
> In which Ivan has opinions.

Disaster. Disaster! 

Baghra had been too slow in disposing of the supplies, too clearly meant to smuggle someone off of Palace grounds. Pyotr, at least, had left on a coach an hour before. Baghra supposed all her careful plans would go to waste. 

The _oprichniki_ had marched Baghra to her hut and rifled her belongings. They carelessly threw aside the book from the _Verloren_ , but their sloppy search was lucky enough to find her letter to Pyotr. Shoving it in her face, they sneered that they'd have Pyotr soon enough. 

Baghra said nothing. There was nothing to say; if her son did not know of her eyes and ears among his people, he was less competent than she thought. 

Worse, they found the little chest of coin the Apparat had entrusted to her. Too professional to be swayed by its contents, they none the less poured the contents on the table, and the leader, a dour man with uncomfortably pale blue eyes, prodded through them. Unnoticed by either herself or the Apparat, a medallion of Sankt Ilya clattered out. Of course it would be that which betrayed her!

The _oprichnik_ grunted a command, and one of their number darted out the door. _Get the Apparat._

Baghra could have summoned her power, wrapped herself in a cloak of icy dark, and escaped into the night. She could have laid all her son's men low at her feet, taken the coin and the traitorous medallion, warned the Apparat at her leisure, and fled. 

That would have been giving up. Tempted as she was, Baghra would soldier on. She would not lose - she could not lose, not while he could still be saved. 

Very well; Aleksander was a step ahead of her in this round of their unending game. Baghra would not be so crass as to upset the table and end the play. Not when she had a chance left to convince him to leave off his plans. To let Morozova's Stag live another span, rather than slaying it to adorn the petty, scheming girl's throat. To be saintly, in truth, and live as they were meant. 

The _oprichniki_ began wadding _kefta_ and necessities into a bag, and only then did Baghra realize that she would not be permitted to return. By the time she began to protest, it was far too late. 

Aleksander would understand. He was such a good boy. He'd always come around in the end.

* * *

It was Genya who came for Alina, far too early in the morning. The Tailor brought along a cozy shawl and a flask of strong tea. She gave Alina a hug and then stood back, hand framing her slender shoulders. 

"Look at you," Genya said, proud. "Going out to get your amplifier, after showing all the Court what a wonderful Grisha you've become. Now just let me touch up those eyes of yours, and-" 

Alina laughed, and for once did not argue. As Genya's deft hands fluttered across her face, she asked, "Aren't you coming too?" 

A scolding hand patted her cheek. "Hold still. And, no." The Tailor's tone was regretful. "I have to stay and tend to the King and Queen. But- isn't it exciting? And you're going with the Darkling too," she teased. 

Alina couldn't help but smile, and got a sharp "Hold still!" for her efforts. When Genya was finished, she stood and wrapped her arms around the Tailor's shoulders. 

"It's exciting," she admitted. "But I'll miss you!" 

"I'll miss you too. Now get going!"

* * *

Had Alina thought it would be just her and the Darkling, whisked away in an open troika for the distant wilds? As soon as she set foot outside the Little Palace, that proved untrue. The troika was unmistakable, lacquered in black, with the Darkling in his heavy corecloth _kefta_ just beside. But the rest of the group! 

There were grooms and unburdened horses, a handful of other troika laden with riders and luggage. Dogs and hunters, cased rifles and _oprichniki_ in greater numbers than Alina had ever seen. 

Her baggage was taken from her hands and laden on the black troika, and she stepped up without hesitation, only to hesitate from the vantage point of the seat.

The troika next to the black one was occupied. Ivan hulked on one side of the seat, glowering. Beside him, her mouth an angry line and her hands clasped like a bird's tense talons, sat Baghra. 

The Darkling swung into place beside her, and handed Alina a heavy woolen blanket and a hat, black wool lined with inky fur. One like it was pulled down over his own ears. 

"Ready, Orlov," he called. The postilion, wearing black livery and a warm cap pulled down low, bowed and shut the door, and with a great sounding of horns and hounds and crying voices, the troika leapt into motion. 

The first few minutes passed in uncomfortable silence. Alina arranged herself more comfortably on the bench beside the Darkling, who seemed content to listen to the shouts of the riders and watch the procession as it spun out along the road. Beside them, falling slowly behind as the coachmen sorted out their order, Baghra stared morosely into the snow. Ivan sat like a stone. 

It wasn't so long before the Darkling struck up a conversation with Alina. He described the forest in which the herd had been spotted. He described the power of Morozova's Stag again, and Alina joined in when the conversation turned toward the nature of the bond between Grisha and amplifier. 

Orlov spoke to the horses. Soon, the wind and the music of the bells surrounded them, and whisked them away into the bright-edged winter morning.

* * *

How could she have let it come to this? 

Baghra fumed silently. Bad enough that she'd been granted an orchestra seat to the downfall of all her plans. Now she must also watch her son and the vapid girl discuss the foolishness that the death of the Stag would permit. All the ways they could harm Ravka, and the world itself! 

If only the Apparat were here. He had such facility in convincing people, and there were servants aplenty with the Darkling's entourage. 

Perhaps he even had eyes among them now. Perhaps he knew where she was going! 

The goon beside her almost certainly knew, but he said nothing when she spoke to him. He only gave her a disdainful look when she used his title. Baghra jabbed him with a sharp finger. 

Slow as an offended turtle, the big Heartrender turned a withering stare on her. Baghra was not to be intimidated by the whims of the young and muscle-headed, so she glared back with enough venom to make him frown. 

"I'm freezing," she complained. "Tell the driver to have mercy and stop, so an old woman can get another shawl." 

"We won't be stopping." That was all he said, but Baghra saw the coachman's nod as clearly as Ivan did, and knew herself to be outnumbered. 

"If I fall ill of that cold wind, I'm telling the Darkling it was your doing." 

Without speaking, the big man shuffled around in his seat. He withdrew not a shawl, but a blanket, from his bag. Baghra recognized one of her own and huffed, but put it around her shoulders anyway. 

If the Apparat were here -

He had such a talent for convincing people, Baghra mused as the troika flew onward. The rhythm of the hooves and the bells served to obscure distance and time, and she drifted for a while in memory. 

She had not intended to make an ally, no indeed. When one of her ears in the Little Palace failed to return, she feared the worst. Perhaps poor Mila had been captured, questioned by the fearsome _oprichniki,_ whose ranks were loyal to her son alone. Perhaps she was fled, taking what little coin Baghra had managed to gain into a new life and a new name, thinking the old teacher unable to find her again. 

No; Mila had only been snared by a more convincing speaker, a more sympathetic ear. The Apparat had lured Baghra's spies, one by one, into his own circle. And then at last Baghra had met with him, and he'd offered alliance. 

They had similar enough goals that it was worth her cooperation. Similar enough methods that they could work together. Just like the horses of the troika, who faced different directions and yet followed a single road, they were faster and more effective when striving toward a single goal. 

Baghra decided she was too wise to doubt. There were powers beyond her son. The Apparat had to know. Had to have escaped the _oprichniki_ sent for him in the dead of night, when even Baghra herself had not! 

Saints, she was cold.

* * *

They barely stopped through the day. Once, to change horses; the Darkling's bay trio was exchanged for a tall black and a matched pair of greys. Ivan's greys were traded for three browns, all alike save for one who had a single white foot. The evening brought another outpost, fresh horses for the morning, and a call for camp to be set. The hunters went swiftly about their business, raising tents and setting fires with efficiency Alina had not seen since her arrival at the Little Palace. 

The Darkling spoke at length with one of his people from the outpost, leaving Alina to her own devices. She called forth her focus and sent a soft glow over the campsite, to the murmurs of the hunters. 

When the tents were almost all set, she found Baghra at her side. "Well cast, girl," the old woman rasped. "Now in your kindness-" Before she could get another word out, Ivan loomed behind her. 

"You must be tired," he said, in a flat, unfriendly tone. Baghra looked back at the imposing Heartrender and frowned. 

"Come with me." He put a hand on Baghra's thin arm, and only then seemed to see Alina. Expressionless, he said, "Yours is also ready." Alina followed the direction of his gesture, and saw a bag that was unmistakably hers being taken into the Darkling's black pavilion. Before she could decide what she thought of that decision, Ivan was towing Baghra away.

* * *

The inside of the pavilion was darker even than the night. By a summoned light and the glow of a brazier, Alina found two cots already made up. Her bag leaned against the one with her familiar blankets from the Little Palace, soft woolens in pale colors. The other had blankets of rich grey and black wool. Outside the tent, she could hear _oprichniki_ conversing in low voices, but the dark walls kept all the firelight out. And - yes - she darted her light across one wall to see if anyone outside would exclaim. Nobody did. Likely, they could not even see her shadow cast on the fabric walls. Reassured and tired, she began to ready for the night. 

She was in her sleeping robe when the Darkling entered on a gust of freezing wind. He saw her and stopped, clearly startled. "Alina." 

"Good evening," she said, raising her chin. Had Ivan not told him they'd be sharing space? But the Darkling did not seem annoyed. Amused, perhaps. He returned the greeting with a tiny smile, and went about laying down his things. A slim folio, laid by his traveling trunk. A pen and an envelope on a tiny folding table, lacquered black but with a tasteful flourish of gold on its edge. He shook frost off his gloves and laid them out by the brazier to dry, checking Alina's and turning them to warm more thoroughly. The ordinariness of the moment was almost hypnotic.

Was this how life would be, if-

He spoke to the quiet _oprichniki_ outside. While she patted at her bedding, he shrugged out of his _kefta._ Halfway into her blankets, Alina froze.

He cast a grey-eyed glance over his shoulder, and she saw a curl to his lips. "Good night, Alina," the Darkling said. 

"Good night," she replied, and laid down. She would close her eyes. She wouldn't watch. She-

He pulled off his shirt, showing a lean, strong body pale as milk. Muscles played in his shoulders as he shrugged into a nightshirt. Alina bit her lip. 

Belatedly, she dismissed the summoned light, and heard a soft chuckle. He stood between her and the brazier, and its red glow showed the silhouette of his body. Showed how he moved, raising one leg and then the other, shucking fabric off. He padded toward his bed on silent feet. _He must be tired,_ Alina thought. Tired, and not inclined to company - and yet, he was tolerating her here, as he did something so mundane as prepare for bed. It was a peculiar kind of trust, and one she'd never thought about before. 

He passed his bed, and padded toward hers. 

"What did I tell you about wanting," came the soft voice. 

"It makes you-" 

Red light glowed soft off a stray strand of dark hair, mere inches from her face. She lost the last word in the electric touch of his lips. 

He must have been crouching by the side of the cot. She reached up and caught him, one arm wrapping around his neck with a jolt of sensation, his amplifying power seeking hers. She felt the leashed frustration in him, in the taut lines of his neck. She felt the wanting, hot as the brazier. 

Under it all was a euphoric, soaring impatience. Unsure if it was his or hers, she pulled him closer. A hand pushed at her shoulder, intent at sliding beneath the covers; a knee pushed between hers. All the while she kissed him, kissed him until they were both breathless. Her other hand lay on his waist - she stroked it downward, then up under his nightshirt, making a small sound as the touch of his skin set her palm to tingling. He felt it too, arching into her touch. She struggled with his nightshirt and he pulled it off, dropping it to the side. Nude, he slid into the blankets with her. 

It was not long before a more intimate touch drew a gasp from them both, and the sensation of power caressing power was twinned with that of body caressing body.

* * *

Once the fires had died down, even the moon was hidden behind an opaque wall of clouds. Baghra was not sleeping. How could she, in captivity? Knowing that the girl had the perfect opportunity to cause yet more complication, and to ensnare her son more thoroughly. 

Baghra had underestimated the Sun Summoner. She had underestimated the depths to which Aleksander would sink. She had, perhaps, overestimated his love for her. The dark of night made it clear. It was a stark, lonely feeling, but that at least was familiar. At least he had not insisted she be bound.

The Heartrender was tired. He was guarding her, yes - but one man could only stay awake so long after a taxing day. She huddled in her blanket against the encroaching cold and watched him through a haze of white lashes. 

He was diligent, that one. At last he sat on his own cot, yawned mightily, and studied her with practiced, careful eyes. Baghra did not permit herself even a twitch. 

It was enough. The big man laid down and shortly his breath shifted into the slow rhythms of sleep.

Darkness pooled under Baghra's cot. It crept to the Heartrender's cot and puddled there, stretching up to cover his eyes. Should she let it creep into his mouth, steal the heat of his body, stop his heart? No, Baghra was not as cruel as some she could name. She veiled him in blackness and watched his slumber deepen. 

Wrapping _kefta_ and blanket and darkness all around herself, lacing her boots as tight as she could against the snow and ice, Baghra drew a deep breath. She had not performed such a working in a long time. The last time, Aleksander had been small, a faint determined presence clinging to her hand... 

He would have a chance again. She would yet walk the forests with her devoted son, the two darksummoners against the world. She would have his failure, the only way to her own success. 

She brought her hands together. No thunderous clap, no dramatic burst - and yet blackness shot outward, absolute as the darkness of the tomb. Outside, an _oprichnik_ shouted alarm. 

Baghra slipped out of the tent. Somewhere in the dark, a horse neighed in fright. She could hear it stomping, and then the crunch of hoof on wood. Dogs yapped and yowled, frightened. 

She did not run, but walked with purpose, slow and intentional, leading the way with her cane. The night was her ally, and navigating it was no hardship. 

She had to stop no fewer than three times as someone blundered past, boots crunching loud on snow and dry grass. Once, a dog ran into her legs and she stumbled hard, but the animal dashed onward, barking. She picked herself up and kept going. 

Her goal was the picket line. If she cut loose the horses, there'd be no troika, no hunt. No Stag. Then, she could deal with the girl.

* * *

Alina was deeply asleep when the shouting started. She jolted upright, remembered too late that she wasn't wearing her nightshirt, and grabbed fruitlessly at the blankets as cold air slapped her back and chest. The brazier's light flickered as the Darkling shot out of bed, grabbing kefta and trousers and boots. And then he disappeared into the other half of the tent - truly disappeared. 

"Make a light!" he called. Despite the earliness of the hour, the Darkling's voice was that of a veteran commander, undeterred by something as simple as an unexpected attack in the depths of Ravka, where there should have been no enemies. 

Alina made a light. There was no point in hiding behind modesty now, and something was badly amiss - splintering wood, alarmingly nearby, and a panicked neigh made that abundantly clear. 

The door to the black pavilion disappeared into shadow, a writhing black mist. "Come toward the cots," she called, and the Darkling emerged. 

He turned and looked at the black mist, and his face took an expression of profound frustration. "Baghra," he muttered. 

"You can't get rid of it?" Alina hurriedly stuffed her arms into her kefta, trousers already on. 

"For that, you need light," the Darkling said. He held out a hand. "You're not stronger than she is." The casual tone of the assessment stung, but Alina took his hand anyway, and used it to balance as she stamped her boots into place. The contact brought the expected anger, a strong sense of frustration, and unexpectedly, a cold finger of fear. 

Alina did not think the latter was hers, but she held the Darkling's hand more tightly, in case it was. Voices shouted outside and someone knocked over a stack of crates, but he was not left in the dark. What could make him afraid? 

Baghra was his mother.

All fear vanished at the thought, replaced by searing protective anger as bright as any Inferni's summoning. Alina raised her right hand, and light cracked outward, chasing the darkness away.

* * *

Baghra had the knife in one hand and the picket ropes in the other when her cover vanished. Light seared outward from the open door of the Darkling's pavilion, so fierce that it stung her eyes to watering. She cried out and dropped the knife, but to no avail - the light was piercing, powerful as a sunrise come to earth. A horse yanked against its lead rope, whinnying and kicking, and that was enough to set the whole line into frantic motion. 

Hounds yammered somewhere in camp, and nearer, voices shouted. 

"You there! Get away from the horses!" 

Baghra didn't dare snatch the knife, fallen too close to the stomping hooves. She hefted her cane and ran.

* * *

"We thought it was you." The _oprichnik_ was kneeling in the snow, holding an arm close to his body. "The darkness-" 

"Where did she go?" The Darkling's voice was flat, but not accusatory. The _oprichnik_ looked up with watery blue eyes full of pain. 

"The light scared her away from the horses," he reported. 

"And Ivan?" The Darkling did not look toward Ivan's tent. 

"I will find out." The _oprichnik_ managed a bow and scrambled away. 

Alina made a strangled sound as they came around the edge of the tent. The picket line was in a shambles, with hunters leading away one frightened horse at a time, and a sad tangle of ropes was all that remained of the carefully organized tethers. One groom was down, groaning over a kicked leg; another helped him to scoot away from a squealing, crowhopping gelding, frantically shushing either horse or man.

Soon, there was nothing to do but hang tight to the Darkling's hand, hold the summoned light, and try to keep up. He pulled her along, following the trail in the snow that could only be Baghra's.

* * *

They brought her to bay against a hedge of thorns. Baghra was stumbling as she ran, cold and exhausted. Her toes were numb, her grip failing, and when she saw the dark line of the hedge, she thought to use it as a barrier. 

Of course, the boy and the girl were faster. Baghra turned, eyes wide, panting smoke, and saw them. Aleksander was furious, his cheeks reddened; Alina had somehow kept up on their mad dash, and now raised her flagging light as if it would make a difference. The wild power had gone out of it, and now it merely illuminated the scene. Baghra picked up the tatters of her pride. The girl would not best her so easily! 

"Enough," Aleksander said, and Baghra could hear in his voice that he was tired. All his _oprichniki_ , all his horses and hunters and hounds, were back untangling the camp. It was just Baghra and Alina and Aleksander. If she was clever enough, there was only one way to lose. That would be to give in. 

"Enough, indeed," Baghra said. "Can't you see? The Stag will never be yours." She laughed, a wild high sound. "And this silly girl! Go on, have your fun and then put her aside. I can forgive you for it."

Alina made a foolish fish face at Baghra and clutched her son's hand harder. Baghra pressed on. "You know the truth, boy. It's you and me against the world. It always has been." She leaned forward and hissed, "It always will be. Drop your silly deer and come with me. We can make our way as we always have."

"Stop it." Aleksander stepped forward, and the girl with him, as if she'd anticipated the motion. It looked like she wanted to say something, but the boy wasn't finished. 

"I brought you along so that you couldn't cause harm at the Little Palace. What should I have done, _mother?_ Had you clapped in irons? Had you killed?" Outrage stained his voice. Baghra sneered. 

"You know you wouldn't," she snapped back, near giddy with imminent victory. "You could never bear your guilt if you struck me down."

"Do you think me weak-" She'd touched a nerve. Triumph! 

"Stop it," Alina barked. "Both of you!" She pointed her free hand, radiant with light, at Baghra. "I cannot believe it. A mother taunts her son for refusing to have her killed." She thrust her other hand down to her side, still holding Aleksander's. "You just want to ruin everything, just like when you tried to make me leave!" 

"You did what." Aleksander's face was a study in cold white fury. Oh, the little girl had decided she had fangs, and the first strike was a true one!

Baghra shook her cane at Alina. "If you'd only listened to me, none of us would be in this mess!" 

"This mess is entirely of your making." Aleksander would have stepped forward, but Alina was still holding his hand, and she would not. Her face was thoughtful, and she was clutching her glowing hand to her chest as if the light would keep her warm. 

"If you're so intent on being far away from me," Alina said, in a precise, cutting tone, "Why don't you just stay here?" 

She pointed with her glowing hand, and the light soared over Baghra's shoulder. Behind the thorn hedge, behind the shadow of trees, was a cottage. No smoke came from its stone chimney, and brambles had overgrown its sole window, but it stood square. 

"No," Baghra said. Aleksander narrowed his grey eyes, so reminiscent of his grandfather, and said, "You crave the humble life; you shall have it." 

Someone shouted not far behind the pair of Grisha. A black-clad arm waved, and four _oprichniki_ hustled into the light. 

Baghra swore and fought, summoned dark that was blown away by the light the furious Sun Summoner brought to bear on her. Snow refracted and caught the beams, a sparkling trap. They forced her into the little building. _Oprichniki_ brought her blankets, a brazier; food and a pan, charcoal and wood. She recognized the shattered side of a crate, tossed in with the firewood. One of them lodged an axe in the largest chunk with altogether too much enthusiasm.

Her son refused to come into the little building. Doubtless it was too lowly for his tastes! Baghra snarled out the window, but he only held the Sun Summoner's hand and refused to answer. "Monster," she called, mocking, powerless. "Heartless child! Leave your own mother and go hunt your stag, Aleksander! See where it brings you!" 

He walked away, the Sun Summoner looking up at him, and said no more to her. 

Then it was dark, and she had the bare beginnings of a fire and a pile of blankets to go on a flat straw mattress that smelled of mold. One of the hunters had shut a hound in with her, the animal unable to run after an encounter with a stray hoof. It whined and thumped its tail, pathetic.

She crept to the window, and saw the hunter standing watch, a pillar of black fur and smoking breath. There would be no repeating her trick.

One last tracker was audible outside, checking the little hut or placing traps, she could not be sure. The door creaked open. Baghra raised her hands to summon, but the hunter made a foul face at her, and flipped something shining from the top of his thumb. "Ivan sends his regards." 

It was the medallion. Sankt Ilya stared up at her from its silver surface. The hunter shut the door and trudged away. The hound whined again. Baghra bit back a scream of frustration. She was resourceful and patient, but the dark would not help her to travel alone through a Ravkan winter. Perhaps the Apparat would find her, after all.

* * *

They were quiet on the walk back to camp. 

The _oprichniki_ were not close. When Alina caught the Darkling looking at her for the third time, she stopped and tugged at his hand. He stopped too, brows tilting in an increasingly familiar question. 

"Aleksander," she said, softly. And he replied, "Yes." 

* * *

In the morning, the troikas took flight to the north. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What a ride! I hope you enjoyed it. 
> 
> I certainly enjoyed all the reading and video-watching about troikas. Happy Yuletide and happy holidays!


End file.
